


A Purplish Kind of Red

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Red Lyrium, look at this piece of shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aand then theres this piece of shit. Part one of ???</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Purplish Kind of Red

Fire burns through his veins, a pulsing blackness that threatens to tear him apart at the seams. He is too weak to scream, mouth dry as he slumps against the wall. They didn't even bother to bind him, he thinks with a mixture of grief and amusement, hardly noticing the hot tears that trickle down his face. They didn't consider him a threat.  
Samson can't remember how many days have passed since the Inquisition brought him in- he can only recall the efficient, emotionless hands that stripped him of his armor, and then the red pain that claws at him even now, hungry and demanding.  
"Samson?" He struggles to raise his head at the sound, trying to identify the voice through the haze of hurt and fear. "Who..." his body betrays him, throat too dry to manage anything past a crackling groan.  
"Shhh," the cell door opens with a creak that makes him flinch. "Don't speak..." A face slowly comes into focus above him, scarred and tired- but unmistakably familiar, even in this sorry state of his.  
"Cullen..?" Samson struggles to sit up, lips cracked and joints refusing to cooperate.  
"Y-yeah." The younger man tips a clay bowl to his lips, and Samson nearly lets out a whimper as the sweet, cool water spills across his tongue. "It's me."  
He lets his head tip back to rest against the wall- exhausted, confused, too frightened to allow a spark of hope to blossom in his chest. "Have you...come to hurt me?" His voice is rough and gravelly from lack of use, but now the sandy dryness in his mouth has lessened enough for him to form proper words.  
"No, of course not." Cullen's tone is kind and gentle, fingers soft as they stroke his forehead. "Samson, I'm here to help you."  
"Help?" He croaks, disbelieving. What kind of cruel joke this must be, to send... His train of thought grinds to an abrupt halt as he feels warmth against his hands, fingers twining between his own.  
"Yeah, Sam. Help." Cullen is kneeling in front of him, hands extended and a sad smile flickering across his face. "I... I haven't abandoned you, you know." Samson tries to twist away, his sneer more a grimace of pain as another wave of fire races through him. "F-fuck off," he hisses wretchedly, powerless and roiling with shame. "I don't need your help, you-"  
The only expression on Cullen's face as Samson doubles over is one of concern, and the hands that steady him as he retches onto the frigid stone floor are nothing but gentle and patient. "It's okay," he hums quietly, rubbing Samson's shoulders as he finishes heaving. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay..." Samson is too exhausted to resist any more, and his eyes close slowly as he falls back against Cullen's chest. Warm arms wrap around him, and at last, at least for now, the humiliation and fear bleed from his thoughts. For the first time in many days, Samson sleeps.  
\- --  
Nightmares pull him awake with a scream, leave him crying in hitching sobs as he curls up on the cell floor. There is no way to measure time here, but from the relative darkness around him Samson assumes it's night time. He's alone again, cold and whimpering brokenly- however brief it had been, the company had made him realise just how empty he was now, how the pain and hunger gnawed at his gut. He wishes he was proud enough not to beg, but there's no dignity in him anymore. "Please," he chokes out. "Please, please come back..."  
Barely seconds pass and Cullen is there, fumbling at the lock and pulling the door open with a clang. He no longer wears his armor, and his clothes smell of smoke and sweat as Samson claws at him desperately, but his embrace is strong and his breaths deep and even.  
He can't think clearly, pain and exhaustion blurring his thoughts, but Cullen doesn't say anything as he grips him tightly- they rock together, and slowly Samson's sobs fade to quiet hiccups. They don't question this- for now, they are not captor and prisoner: Skyhold is quiet, and they need the comfort. Cullen knows what could happen if someone caught them like this, their Commander holding their enemy in his arms. It doesn't matter- he can't stay away any longer while Samson suffers. He'd loved him...he still does, perhaps, though the once-proud man he knew is nothing like the whimpering shell he holds in his arms. Samson is fragile now- his faith destroyed, his lyrium taken away- but as the man clings to his chest, Cullen feels his heartbeat against his own. A steady beat, slowing to match him, frightened and not daring to truly calm, but perhaps- There is hope, he decides, as his fingers caress the back of Samson's neck. Maybe things will be better. Maybe things will be okay.  
\- --  
Samson brings the spoon to his lips, ignoring the burn of the too-hot broth on his tongue as he meets Cassandra's icy gaze. "I have told you all I can," he hisses, seated as far away from the Seeker as the cramped cell allows. "There is nothing more for you to learn here."  
She scoffs in return, and her hands wander to the blade at her side. The irritation and contempt in her glare is clearly visible, but Samson meets her eyes with an emotionless stare. He is better now, able to eat, and the lack of lyrium doesn't hurt quite as much anymore. He is stronger, sharper- though loneliness tears at him unforgivingly, only truly broken when Cullen comes to visit. They don't talk much when he does- Samson bitter and angry, Cullen afraid to hurt him, to hurt anyone. Often, they don't talk at all, just stare at each other mutedly through the bars of the cell- but it's better than rotting here alone. That thought gives him strength, and he braces for the Seeker's questioning. He will survive.  
Samson still has all his limbs when Cassandra exits the cell with a loud clang, and he counts the interrogation as a success. He slumps back, drained but satisfied, setting aside the now-empty bowl. He won't allow himself to sleep yet, unwilling to face the red-tinted nightmares that await him every night, but there is little else to do here. Instead, Samson leans against the wall and stares passively at the ceiling, waiting for time to flow past in silence.  
The hours here are only marked by the food he is given daily, simple meals slipped wordlessly under his door. Some days are better than others- Samson can bring himself to eat instead of just swallowing a mouthfull of water, soothing the everpresent pain and hunger. He's gotten used to the sensations now- he can remember little from before, imagine little more than this. Eventually, he learns to recognise the faces of his infrequent visitors- Cassandra's haughty scowl, Leliana's cool, taught smile. The Inquisitor is a riddle; too quiet and too soft and too kind and it makes him so angry. Samson doesn't want kindness- at least he tells himself that, repeats it over and over and over as the days pass in a haze, repeats it like a prayer when he finds he feels nothing anymore, not even pain but a cold empty hole in his stomach eating at his throat and coiling, snakelike, somewhere deep inside him. This is loneliness, he realises. Oh, how far he's fallen.


End file.
